The five weirdest things in the Daily Mail's profile of Michael Gove

EW EW EW EW.

Jan Moir's profile of Michael Gove, in today's Daily Mail, is a work of… well, it's Jan Moir's profile of Michael Gove in today's Daily Mail. Here are the five weirdest passages:

1) The I-can't-tell-if-she's-being-cutting-or-if-she-actually-thinks-it sycophancy:

It makes the boyish and bespectacled Gove seem rather more interesting that your average grey politician, even one who today is wearing what he describes as a ‘deliberately dull’ tie to avoid accusations of ‘peacockery’. Hilarious.

2) The random Molesworth quote:

Gove says his lack of leadership ambitions is a liberation, one that sets him free to concentrate on the job in hand, the perilous task that consumes him every day: the overhaul of the failing education system in this country. And it desperately needs it, as any fule kno.

3) The idea that a government minister doing his job deserves as much coverage as a government minister not doing his job:

Today he feels vindicated, but wryly notes that had the judgment gone the other way, it would have dominated the news agenda on the BBC and other Left-wing media outlets all day. ‘Ohhh, it would have been all “GCSE fiasco!”, I think. It is impossible to avoid the word fiasco these days.’ In the end, the triumph was barely mentioned. The focus is always on what Gove gets wrong, not on what he gets right.

4) Gove was that guy you hated in University:

When he first went to Oxford, he amazed everyone by wearing a three-piece tweed suit to lectures.

5) EW EW EW EW:

An old edition of Cherwell, the Oxford student newspaper, contains details of a purported five-in-a-bed romp in London and — more embarrassments — claims that Gove‘s nickname was Donkey because of certain physical attributes. The Education Minister waves this saucy notion away.

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Alex Hern is a technology reporter for the Guardian. He was formerly staff writer at the New Statesman. You should follow Alex on Twitter.

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Why do the words “soup, swoop, loop de loop” come to mind every time I lift a spoon to my lips?

It’s all thanks to Barry and Anita.

A while ago I was lending a friend the keys to our house. We keep spare keys in a ceramic pot I was given years ago by someone who made it while on an art-school pottery course. “That’s er . . . quite challenging,” the friend said of the pot.

“Is it?” I replied. “I’d stopped noticing how ugly it is.”

“Then it’s a grunty,” she said.

“A what?” I asked.

“A grunty. It’s something you have in your house that’s hideous and useless but you’ve stopped noticing it completely, so it’s effectively invisible.”

I was much taken with this idea and realised that as well as “grunties” there are also “gruntyisms”: things you say or do, though the reason why you say or do them has long since been forgotten. For example, every time we drink soup my wife and I say the same thing, uttered in a strange monotone: we say, “Soup, swoop, loop de loop.” How we came to say “soup, swoop, loop de loop” came about like this.

For a married couple, the years between your mid-thirties and your late forties might be seen as the decade of the bad dinner party. You’re no longer looking for a partner, so the hormonal urge to visit crowded bars has receded, but you are still full of energy so you don’t want to stay in at night, either. Instead, you go to dinner parties attended by other couples you don’t necessarily like that much.

One such couple were called Barry and Anita. Every time we ate at their house Barry would make soup, and when serving it he would invariably say, “There we are: soup, swoop, loop de loop.” After the dinner party, as soon as we were in the minicab going home, me and Linda would start drunkenly talking about what an arse Barry was, saying to each other, in a high-pitched, mocking imitation of his voice: “Please do have some more of this delicious soup, swoop, loop de loop.” Then we’d collapse against each other laughing, convincing the Algerian or Bengali taxi driver once again of the impenetrability and corruption of Western society.

Pretty soon whenever we had soup at home, Linda and I would say to each other, “Soup, swoop, loop de loop,” at first still ridiculing Barry, but eventually we forgot why we were saying it and it became part of the private language every couple develop, employed long after we’d gratefully ceased having soupy dinners with Barry and Anita.

In the early Nineties we had an exchange student staying with us for a year, a Maori girl from the Cook Islands in the southern Pacific. When she returned home she took the expression “soup, swoop, loop de loop” with her and spread it among her extended family, until finally the phrase appeared in an anthropological dissertation: “ ‘Soup swoop, loop de loop.’ Shamanistic Incantations in Rarotongan Food Preparation Rituals” – University of Topeka, 2001. 

This article first appeared in the 21 July 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The English Revolt